


A Thousand Summers

by TheCinematicRevealThatBatmanIsDead



Series: August Fifteenth [1]
Category: Kagerou Project
Genre: Aromantic, Asexual Character, Gen, Panic Attacks, Rewrite, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6933388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCinematicRevealThatBatmanIsDead/pseuds/TheCinematicRevealThatBatmanIsDead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of two children and the end of eternity</p><p>The story of a Monster, and the beginning</p><p>A story that will overwhelm your eyes</p><p>This is a prequel to Member No. 08</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 98.6

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and published my first draft of this fic almost two years ago. On a whim, I did a complete rewrite, and I'm much happier with this version. Special thanks to NinthFeather for beta reading.

(1)

I wake up drenched in sweat, shivering and hyperventilating and maybe crying, just a little. My body is empty save for the crippling fear running through my bones. A nauseating feeling of instability, of falling, of being crushed beneath a hot steel wall, sweeps through me like an ocean current. 

There’s no question. I am dying. My body is corroding and I am dying. 

Someone’s saying my name, whispering it, and I feel a touch against the skin on my arm. My panic-stricken, sleep-addled brain begins to function again, and that feeling of mortal terror slowly dies. I look to my right, and you’re there. Your features fade into view: your short black hair, your trembling frame, the look of fear on your face, your hand hovering over me, afraid to touch. My breathing slows and my shoulders relax. You’re okay. I’m okay. My eyes adjust to the dark and I see the painting of a snowy landscape on the wall opposite your bed. We’re at your uncle’s house, it’s August 15th. I’m not in any danger. Whatever it was, I imagined it. I had to have imagined all of it.

 

My head's still spinning, but I know where I am now. I nod, because I need you to know that I’m okay. My mouth is still too dry to speak. I settle back onto the bed, pull the covers up to my shoulders. Your hand falls by your side. “I’m fine,” I croak. “Thank you.” 

You close your eyes and nod. You look like a ghost drifting back to your bed without a sound. I can’t look at you. I press my face into the pillow and try not to cry hot tears of embarrassment. Now you know I’m a coward. 

Sleep takes me eventually.

 

When I wake up, my face is stuck to the fabric of the pillow with sweat, but the shame has faded. It left a wispy trail hanging over the room, but that too evaporates in the morning light. I glance over, and you’re gone. Downstairs, probably. I rub the crust from my eyes and stagger out of bed. Mei, your black cat, barely avoids getting stepped on. I slip on my sandals and head downstairs, leaning on the banister as I walk.

When I get down, you’re sitting outside on a soft-looking chair, listening to music on your phone, and Chi is sprawled out on the couch, snoring. I catch your eye and you pause your music, looking me up and down. 

“You look awful,” you say.

I look away and feel my stomach churning before I register the concern in your voice. I do look terrible. My hair’s matted, I’m sweating, and my eyes are baggy and sore. The heat must have woken you up, too, because you left the sliding glass door open and you’ve got a wet towel around your neck. You stretch, splaying your fingers and extending your hand up toward the sky, and you accidentally brush the wind chime hanging from the roof. It makes a soft ring that sounds like a gentle voice rather than metal against metal. You are divinely beautiful in that moment and I feel small and sick and naive, unworthy to ever be graced by your presence. To even dare to love you. 

“Hey, Hibiya” you say. “Wanna hit the park?”

“Sure. Do you know the way?”

“Yeah. Follow me”.

You whistle for Mei, who jumps into your arms without a sound. You scratch her gently on the head and she purrs, almost grinning. You step into the golden sunlight, perfect and untouchable, then you’re gone. I feel so  _ mortal _ as I follow you.

 

Your voice always has a tired edge to it. You never look at people when you’re talking to them, you just look straight ahead and talk into the wind. I think about this while we’re sitting side-by-side on the swings in the empty park.

“I hate summer,” you say into the wind.

I wait for you to elaborate, but you don't. “Why?” I ask.

“Spring is birth. Winter is death. Summer…”

You look at your feet and trace circles in the dirt with the tips of your shoes. “Summer’s just…pain. Just hurting and waiting.”

I don't know what to say to that.

I look into the street like you’re doing. It’s quiet, unnaturally so. The noise of the city is gone. Now it’s just like our hometown. Silent as death, like a snake coiled beneath a rock, waiting to strike. Waiting and hurting. When I look back, you’re looking at me, studying me. I cough and spit the words out.

“Hiyori…about last night…”

“Yeah, what was that? You scared me.”

“It’s just…it’s something that happens to me sometimes. Medical.” I swallow and cross my arms.

“Like…panic disorder?”

“I think that’s the name for it.”

Mei coils up in your lap, muscles taut, ready to pounce.

“Oh. Chi’s had some clients with panic disorder. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

I almost start crying right there. Some far-flung part of myself whispers that I’m valid, no matter what you think. A louder part roars in ecstasy that the golden goddess Hiyori Asahina has forgiven me for,  _ cured me _ of my weakness. What comes out is an automatic “Thank you”.

“Thank you?”

Suddenly Mei leaps from your arms and takes off toward the crosswalk. You stand up.

“Mei! Stop!”

She sits, right in the middle of the street. You sigh and hold your hand out, palm turned towards me. “Hold on.” Then, you march down the path from the park to the crosswalk. I don't follow you, not at first. You’re already at the gate when I get up from the swing. I’ll never forgive myself for that.

 

I’m stepping off the curb when you freeze. You turn to face me. The expression on your face is a stony glare that stops me in my tracks. The tension fades from your face, replaced by a look of resignation. Exhaustion. Gratitude. I don't know. I don't get a good enough look at it before the semi truck blindsides you. 

 

For a minute, I can't breathe. The noise is gone before I can really hear it, and all’s quiet again. There’s a…shape on the asphalt. I can't feel anything. I get closer. My limbs are tingling and there’s the shape. It’s not you, that’s for sure. This thing is stock-still, absolutely limp. You’re full of life, full of little movements. You push a lock of hair behind your ear, catch the sunlight in your hands, blow out a perfect puff of steam in the winter air. This thing, this lifeless red lump, with its skin torn ragged, its hair covering its eyes, its face already bruised, a blackish-red stain spreading across its dress…

 

It can’t be you.

 

You seem so  _ mortal  _ now.  

 

You seem heavier now, as I cradle your head in my arms and scream. The warmth of your blood, the heat of the asphalt, and the truck, and the air that is turning to liquid in my lungs, it’s too real. My vision blurs and shatters like a kaleidoscope with a melting lens, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’m crying. You don't deserve this. I want my body to stop. Stop trembling, stop breathing, stop feeling, stop working. I want to die with you. I can feel it happening. The melting, dancing colors around me give way to bleach-white shadows of a crosswalk and black silhouettes of people. I feel myself fall, and my vision is swallowed by darkness. 

 

I wake up drenched in sweat, shivering and hyperventilating and crying so much it hurts. My body is empty save for the crippling fear running through my bones. A feeling of instability, of falling, of being crushed beneath a hot steel wall, sweeps through me like an ocean current. 

There’s no question. I am dying. My body is corroding and I am dying. 

Someone’s saying my name, whispering it, and I feel a touch against the skin on my arm. My panic-stricken, sleep-addled brain begins to function again, and that feeling of mortal terror slowly dies. I look to my right, and you’re there. Your features fade into view: your short black hair, your trembling frame, the look of fear on your face, your hand hovering over me, afraid to touch. My breathing slows and my shoulders relax. You’re okay. I’m okay. Whatever it was, I imagined it. I had to have imagined all of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit: The normal temperature of the human body.


	2. 115.0

The Monster curled tighter, still unused to this new form that could warm itself. Her pale skin was wet and soft, and would often get cut against the jagged stones in the cave. 

“Scars,” said Retaining Eyes. “Humans get them too. When they’re hurt, their skin becomes hard and discolored to remind them of the pain. The scars are like you. They outlive the humans.”

The Monster nodded. She traced the dark stripe on her stomach with her fingertips. A human had given her this scar. He was probably dust now. Every human on earth would become dust eventually. 

“Oblivion,” said Clearing Eyes. “They think it’s inevitable.” 

“It  _ is  _ inevitable,” Focusing Eyes hissed. “I can see it”.

The Monster’s eyes stung, and became heavy with water that leaked down her face.

“Tears,” said Deceiving Eyes.

She hated this. The cool air of the cave seemed to bite into her skin, and she felt like a tiny spark instead of the eternal flame she was. 

“Sorrow,” said Stealing Eyes. “It will pass.”

The Monster wiped the tears from her face, and looked expectantly at Favoring Eyes. The red viper dipped her head just a bit, and the Monster’s eyes began to glow.

“Warmth,” whispered Favoring Eyes.

Images flooded her mind. Closeness. Fire. A human lifting her hand into the sky, trying to grab the sun. Words in a completely unfamiliar language: “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

* * *

When I wake up, you’re gone. My head is swimming and my bones feel hollow. I don’t know how I got back to your uncle’s house, but it’s good to be in familiar surroundings.

You’re dead.

I can’t feel anything. 

My body moves of its own accord. It stumbles out of bed and limps downstairs, leaning against the banister. This is the beginning of a new chapter in my life. One defined by numbness, depression, loneliness and guilt. I still have a few hours, maybe a few minutes, before the reality of your death sinks in completely. I don’t want to stop moving, because I know the grief will bring me to my knees, and I want to be strong for as long as I can. I walk outside barefoot, sweating, staggering like a zombie down the empty street. 

It’s quiet. The only living things I can see are ravens clinging to the telephone wires. The wires themselves are more tangled than they were before. They come together and form a mass that resembles stringy hair being pulled in every direction. The street is littered with potholes. My feet burn from the hot concrete. 

I look up and I’m at the park entrance. Beyond the jungle gym, the merry-go-round and the slide is the swingset.

And you. You’re sitting on the swing, tracing circles in the sand with your toes, alive. 

 

We don’t talk for a while. We sit back on the swings and enjoy each other’s company, enjoy the feeling of drawing air into our lungs. You’re the one who breaks the silence. 

“Hibiya...what’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

“Did I really die?”

“I don’t know.”

“It felt real.”

I gently swing back and forth. “What’s it like? Or what was it like?”

You don’t look at me as you talk. “The impact of the truck was excruciating. Lying there, though, feeling my life ebbing away…it was even worse.”

I don’t say anything. You tilt your head to look at me, and I recognize your expression. The tired, resigned smile you wore before the truck hit you. 

“Dying hurts, Hibiya. It really hurts.”

I still can’t feel anything but the heat. It’s oppressive. It bears down on me, a blanket of humidity that I can’t shed. 

I look you in the eye, and you nod. We’re going home.

I’m completely numb as we walk hand-in-hand down the sidewalk. While we’re crossing the overpass, a truck - _ the _ truck- passes us and my blood goes cold. It’s happening again, I’m a coward, I’m weak, I don’t deserve you or anyone, I’m sick, I’m sick, I’m sick. I’m trembling again. The tingling dread, the physical feeling of mortal terror, returns, running up and down my spine, into my arms and legs. You can see it. 

I feel very far away now. I vaguely notice that I’m saying something as I lean against the guardrail, but there is no guardrail. You and the rest of the world roll away from me until I’m facing the sky, and there’s still nothing to catch me.

Darkness eats at the corners of my vision and I’m falling. Dying. Someone’s calling my name and  _ impact _ I’ve stopped falling. I can’t move and I can’t breathe and I hate myself for doing this to you, but I’m dying. Something cold and precious is leaking out of a hole in my chest, in my mind or my soul, and evaporates in the crushing heat. The last of it spirals away and I’m an empty shell, blind, lifeless, almost unfeeling. 

You’re absolutely right. 

It really hurts. 

 

I wake up in bed next to yours, covered in sweat but otherwise fine. I look to my right and our eyes meet. The clock on the nightstand between our beds says 12:00 AM, August 15th. 

“Hiyori?”

You don’t respond. You’re looking at the painting, or the spot where the painting used to be. Now, there’s just a cluster of telephone wires snaking in through a hole, like the tendrils of a creeping vine, clinging to the wall, to the ceiling, or hanging loosely, sometimes giving off blue sparks. You’re staring at the clock, and the rust-colored streak across its face. You’re staring at the way the wall seems to be breathing. I’m staring outside at the paramedics loading my body into an ambulance. The heat is making it hard to breathe.

“Get some sleep, Amamiya.”

I look over and you’re already on your side, facing away from me. “What?” I ask.

“I don't think this is gonna stop, so…sleep while you can.”

The noise of the clock ticking is gone. I roll over, lie against the pillow and close my eyes. 

Aside from a vague sensation of falling, I don’t dream that night.

I’m grateful.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 115.0 degrees Fahrenheit: The temperature of the highest recorded fever from which a human has recovered.


	3. 212.2

_Dear Ayaka,_

_I don’t belong here._

_I thought that maybe, because you were my sister, I’d feel something when I saw you, something would click and memories would come flooding back and I’d be able to cry. No such luck. There was no one in the casket, and the woman on the program, wreathed in clip-art flowers teeming with jpeg artifacts, was a stranger._

_It’s selfish. After all, this is your funeral. Your big day. God, I feel sick just writing that. But I can’t help it. I want to feel something. I don’t want to feel this detached from you and Mom and Dad. From myself. For the first time, I miss you. Or the idea of you, at least._

_For what it’s worth, the ceremony was beautiful. You were beautiful. Your kids are beautiful._

_Honestly, a word as beautiful as “beautiful” is wasted on shitty nothing platitudes like this. I hope you would have been able to understand on some big-sisterly level._

_But too little, too late, I guess._

_With Love,_

_Hiyori Asahina._

* * *

 

_Dear Ayaka,_

_It helps to address this to a real person. “Dear Diary” always seemed so insincere to me, and I hate the idea that I’m just talking to myself. So why you, why not my friends, or my parents, or myself? I guess because I know you’ll keep my secrets. Dead men tell no tales._

_Gross. I hate that that kind of stuff comes out of my head. You’re not dead, not as long as I keep your memory alive, keep saying your name, keep writing to you. I like that. I like the idea that I’m carrying your torch._

_But then I remember that I don’t know you. I_ still _don’t know anything about you. I’ve already failed to keep you alive._

_I met your children at the funeral. The oldest one, Ayano, looked a bit like you. Waste of ink. Of course she fucking looked like you._

_I think it would make me happy if she turned out to have your disposition. She was so gentle, so energetic. Almost bouncing. And at a funeral, no less. She was invincible. I’d like it if you were like that too, happy in the face of everything, powerful and rebellious in your joy._

* * *

 

_Dear Ayaka,_

_It dawned on me that you didn’t know me either._

_I’m Hiyori Asahina, your little sister. You ran away from home before I was born and died before I could meet you. Now I’m twelve, painfully aware of my own mortality, and locked up in my room, writing to you._

_Interests, I guess. I like music. I’m second chair percussion in the school band. I like writing, clearly. I like fighting games, especially Tekken, and I’d like to make my own one day. Pipe dream, I know, but it’s nice to think about._

_I don’t like attention, which sucks, because I’m the closest thing this shitty backwater town has to an idol._

_Woah. What a bitchy thing to say, jeez._

_What I mean is, I’ve been the center of attention at my school since day one, all because somewhere along the line I picked up the reputation of being a heartbreaker. Boys trip over themselves trying to impress me or make me fall in love with them or_ whatever _they’re trying to do because I honestly haven't the first clue. I’ve gotten letters, I’ve gotten sports events dedicated to me, I’ve gotten marriage proposals like I’m in_ To Kill A Mockingbird. _The adults all seem to think it’s adorable. “A boy is not a man,” they say, “until Asahina turns him down”. I don’t understand it. This isn’t how normal people act._

_About those letters. I made a big show of burning them on the playground in front of all the kids who sent them. I got a standing ovation. I started crying, and locked myself in the bathroom before anyone could see._

_There’s an idol whose music I’m in love with named Momo Kisaragi. She writes her own stuff, and one of her best songs is about how painful being famous can be. It’s scary when people think they know you, fall in love with this abstract approximation of who you are. They don’t see the real you, and you start to feel like the real you is fading away. I can relate. I feel like I’m wearing a mask whenever I’m in public. I’m becoming more of a concept and less of a person._

_That’s good for tonight. I’m about to pass out._

_Thanks for listening._

* * *

 

_Dear Ayaka,_

_I was in Kindergarten when this happened. The playground the teachers took us to had a little stream that ran through it, and in the summer there would sometimes be crawfish scuttling along the bottom. I remember grabbing one by the part where the tail meets the body, just like I’d been taught, and dropping it in this kid’s hair. It got tangled up and he started crying. I felt awful. I took him to the nurse’s office to get it out. The nurse asked him how it had happened, and he said he was laying by the stream and it crawled in. I whipped my head around to look at him. He was concentrating on maintaining eye contact with the nurse, and realizing that he was covering for me, I was moved by some sense of justice bubbling in my chest that wasn’t there before. I said, “I put it there. I dropped it in his hair while he wasn’t looking.”_

_The nurse looked at him, then me, and I could see something I didn’t recognize in her face. It wasn’t the dismissive “how cute, they’re in love” smile I’d been expecting. It was more open, curious._

_That was how Hibiya Amamiya became my friend. We didn’t see each other often. At most, our orbits would intersect every few years, and we’d each see how the other had changed, or stayed the same. He would still be that timid kid who would roll his shoulders and close his eyes like an actor getting into character before he would talk to anyone. I was different every time. My wall would get higher and thicker. I’d be more bitter, more tired._

_I feel like I lost sight of something between then and now. I don’t like the way I am, and I don’t know what to do, Ayaka. I don’t know what to do._

* * *

_ Ayaka, _

_ I brought it up because Hibiya’s in my class now. We sit on opposite sides of the room, but we still bump into each other in the hall and stuff. He’s completely head-over-heels.  _

_ I miss playgrounds. I miss sitting on the swings and wrapping the chains into a little helix, then letting go and spinning. I miss burying friends in the sandbox. I miss passing around little sticks, crouching over a spot of damp ground and “mining for clay”, and coming home with greyish smears down my new skirt. Hibiya was there for that part of my life, and now he’s back, unchanged. I want to start over, shed this baggage that’s built up on my shoulders over the years and go back to being like you and Ayano. Hibiya could take me back there, and I might not feel so lost.  _

_ When I write that out, it sounds awful. I don’t want to  _ use _ him. I just… _

_ I close my eyes and try to imagine what it would look like if we were “together”. I try to cut through the vagueness and insinuation behind the term. I don’t see marriage, I don’t see dinner dates, I don’t see kissing or holding hands or sex. Not with him, not with anyone. Ever. But I do see smiles. Late nights spent talking about problems on the phone. Sleepovers with soft drinks and video games and blood-boiling Tekken tournaments. Sitting on swing sets and talking candidly about terrifying things. I want to be his friend. More than anything in the world right now, I want Hibiya and I to be something stronger than lovers, closer than siblings. I want us to be friends.  _

_ With Love, _

_ Hiyori Asahina. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 212.2 degrees Fahrenheit: The temperature at which water boils. Incidentally, at one (1) atmosphere of pressure, human blood boils at approximately the same temperature.


	4. Absolute Zero

I’m on my knees, throwing up  _ hard _ , pressing the top of my head against the outside wall of your uncle’s house.

“What do you think it was?” you ask.

The rush stops and I gasp for breath. “Gas leak, maybe? Chemicals?” I say, panting. “ I dunno, I just smelled something and then…oh god”.

The acidic bile burns in my throat, and I almost choke as it springs free. 

You grimace a bit, and fold your arms across your chest. 

“Did you call poison control?” I ask. You reach into your pocket and pull out a handful of white sand. “No, my phone did the thing again.”

I sigh and plop down on the curb. You sit next to me.    
“I admire your bravery,” I say with a sheepish grin. 

You brush the gravel off your skirt. “Yeah, well. It was kinda my fault.”

“Oh, please.”

“Mmm.” You brush a lock of hair out of your eyes. “Did you at least have fun?”

“With Tekken? Yeah. The blocking is weird, though. Doesn’t really lend itself to counters.”

You look at me with a horribly smug grin on your face. “Hmm...have you considered…”

“No.”

“If you don’t mind me using...”

“Don’t say it.”

“Using an insider term…”

“Hiyori, I swear, I’ll bite your arms off if you say it.”

“I would recommend you try…”

“Don’t say it!”

“...Getting Good.” You enunciate sharply, sounding  _ so _ pleased with yourself that I can’t help but smile.

“Nice. Perfect.

“Give that a shot.”

We laugh until I go into a coughing fit. I actually start shaking between coughs. When it’s over, I spit some blood onto the concrete and sigh. 

“Well...I’m gonna go finish dying. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You nod, wearing that same sad smile, like a silhouette of defiant joy breaking through a curtain of bitterness.

Feeling lightheaded, I walk back into the house and shut the door behind me. 

I wake up drenched in sweat, shivering and hyperventilating before I remember where I am. My breathing slows, my body relaxes, and without missing a beat, I’m asleep again. 

* * *

“What’s your story, Hibiya?”

I’m distracted by the fact that our strides aren’t quite the same as we walk down the sidewalk. Maybe it’s the length of my legs, or the pace of your gait, but I can’t figure out who exactly is faster or slower. The road is quiet except for the piercing screams of the cicadas. A long strip of asphalt is liquifying and bubbling up in the sun. 

“You’ve asked me this a couple times.”

“Well, what’s the answer this time?”

“You dropped a crawfish in my hair and I fell in love,” I say. “It took me eight years to work up the nerve to tell you, to ask you if it was mutual. And...it turned out it wasn’t. The end.”

“That wasn’t the end.”

I stop walking.

You look at me with no expression on your face, but you’re looking  _ at  _ me. “I’m still here. You’re still here. Life goes on. And…”

You run your hand along your scalp and let out a puff of air that could be a laugh.

“And this is what I never understood about the letters and the boys and that hopeful look on their faces when they’d ask me out, and all the talk about ‘rejection’ and ‘heartbreak’, this is what I don’t understand: you all think that you’ve failed.

“You think that when I say ‘I don’t feel that way about you,’ you’ve lost me forever. That’s just...it’s baffling.”

“Why?”

You start to say something, but let out a deep sigh instead. A familiar look of exhaustion spreads across your face, your arms fall to your sides, and I see you crying for the first time.

When you cry, you hang your head, and your hair obscures most of your face. The noise you make is quiet, just little gasps that punctuate stretches of tense stillness throughout your body. You press an open palm against your face, and let the tears flow through your fingers and fall to the ground like raindrops. 

You swallow and roll your shoulders before looking me in the eye. “Love seems to be this connection that just happens between two strangers. That’s a guess, I don’t know. I’ve never felt that. And at first, I figured I was just picky. I’d eventually get to know someone well enough and then it would just appear, and I’d recognize it, and I’d understand all these absurd things that seem to tie back to love. Then it didn’t happen. And it kept not happening. And then things, feelings that everyone said were perfectly natural for girls my age...I didn’t feel them. And I just keep getting colder, and more distant, while people, boys and girls, are losing their minds all around me over sex and dates and who likes who…”

The tears well back up. You turn your face away from me and start speaking into the wind again.

“I’m so scared that I’m just broken. If I don’t have this thing that seems so vital to being human... what does that make me?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “I just wish I could start over. Swallow my pride and pretend to feel like you do. Because I don’t want to be lonely. I want…”

You look deflated. Utterly spent and ready to give up. There is something unjust about that.

“Please don’t,” I say.

You look at me like you’ve forgotten I was here. I hold my ground.

“You’re not broken any more than I am. And it makes me sick to think that I made you feel that way. So please, please, don’t feel like you have to pretend to be anyone else. Hiyori, I-” 

I stop talking, because I’m crying now. I try to push through it, because I need you to hear this.

“I love you. I love you, and part of that means that I want you to be happy. And if starting over can make you happy, if being your friend can make you happy, I’ll do it without hesitating. Because if you’re happy because of something I did...then I haven’t failed.” I wipe the tears from my eyes and try to smile defiantly, the way you do.

“ _ That _ is my story,” I say.

You look stunned.  For a long time, we’re silent. The only noise is the wind howling in our ears and the ringing of metal as a bundle of steel tubes suspended by a crane up above us comes loose and begins to fall. 

Dying hurts.

* * *

 

I wake up with my face pressed against a cold sheet of glass and someone shaking me gently. 

“Excuse me?”

I turn my head sluggishly to face you. You’re holding up a bus ticket with my name on it. 

“I think you missed your stop.”

I sit up, and my eyes dart to the street signs, but I get my bearings and relax. 

“It’s fine,” I say, yawning. “I just lost some time.”

A few seconds go by, and I still feel your eyes on me. When I turn to look, your eyes are laser-focused on my face, and you look lost in thought. I try not to move.

“Are you the yearbook kid?” you finally ask.

“I take pictures for the yearbook, yeah,” I say.

“You took my picture a few weeks ago?”

You pull a photograph from a pocket somewhere on your jacket. It’s you and me in front of the school at sunset, our hands clasped and raised above our heads. 

“Oh, yeah. One of your friends took this before a holiday, right?”

You smile and nod and the look triggers a memory of a crowded convention center, old TVs set up in rows, and a collective gasp from twelve or thirteen people surrounding one monitor. 

“Oh, wait,” I say. “Were you at that fighting game tournament a few months back?”

“The Dead Bullet reigonals?” you say, surprised.

“Dead Bullet, yeah! You were there during the pre-game, when they had the floor open to anyone, and you played against the girl who ended up advancing to the nationals, right?”

“Yeah! That was all the way back in September.” You get a sheepish look on your face all of a sudden. “Are you...into fighting games at all?”

“I’m not too good at them, but I’m trying to learn. Mostly, though, I just like watching the high-level stuff.” I pause as something occurs to me. “I remember that match. You were  _ really _ good.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. I was just wondering...I have Third Strike at my house. Do you want to come over and, maybe, teach me some secrets? Show me the ropes?”

As I say this, I pull the cord above my seat, because my stop is next. You hit the STOP button by the window at the same time. We both notice this.

The bus drives away, leaving us alone together on the bench beside our stop. I text my mom to ask if I can have a friend over, and you call your parents, saying you’re going to a friend’s house. “Yeah,” you say, “remember the Amamiya family? Their kid. Yes, I’ll be home by nine. Okay. I love you. Bye.”

My phone buzzes, and the message “Sure thing. Your dad says he’ll believe you have friends when he sees it” appears. I crack a smile and stuff the phone into my jacket pocket. 

It’s a short walk to my house, and we take it in silence. At the foot of my driveway, you stop, look up, and breathe out a puff of steam. I watch it as it rises into the frigid air and then fades into nothing. 

“Hey,” I hear myself mutter. You look my way. “You okay if I make a copy of that picture?” I ask.

“That’d be fine,” you say. I nod. 

You step up to the porch and knock on the door. There’s a question on the tip of my tongue. 

The door lock clicks. The knob turns. The door opens, and a blast of heat almost knocks us over. The air coming through the door feels like molten steel, but we take it. 

There’s someone behind us, whispering in our ears.

“One of you gets to leave. The other stays in the Haze.”

The Haze. That must be the place on the other side of the door. I recognize the blinding whiteness of it, the way it seems to shimmer like it’s underwater, and of course, the suffocating heat. One of us has to walk through the door and damn themselves to a thousand summers of waiting and hurting for the other.

“Hibiya, NO-”

* * *

A jolt ran through my body. Consciousness returned in a blinding flash of sensation. I was floating. My back was being pushed against a ceiling made of some hot, gritty material, and below me was a featureless blue abyss. I couldn’t breathe. My mouth was full of heavy, metallic-tasting liquid. I tried to sit up, but I had no abdominal muscles. There was nothing but fog below my neck. I began to panic. I jerked my head to the left and tried to say my name, but a wet cough came out instead. Crimson liquid flew from my mouth, and I could feel my airways clearing just a bit, so I spit out more. When I finally got air in my lungs, the world crashed into existence. I was lying on my back on the asphalt, looking up at the cloudless sky. A cool breeze gently kissed my skin for the first time in years. In the distance, I heard traffic noises, footsteps, the murmuring of hundreds of people.

It was over.

I turned my head hoping to see my excitement reflected in Hibiya’s face. Instead, I saw his body face-down on the street, his hair covering his face and his white vest soaked with blood.

I closed my eyes. “I’ll come back for you,” I said before the world melted and I blacked out. 

* * *

The air in front of me is boiling, and in the steam, I can see the hole that leads to the real world. Through the hole, I can see you laid out on the asphalt. You turn your head to look at me, and I want to do something to reassure you, to let you know that I’ll be okay. I reach into my pocket and fish out the picture you gave me. I take one last look at the joy in your expression and posture. I hold the photo against my heart and pray that you’ll smile like that again soon. Then I release the picture into the hole, just before it closes.

I’m alone again. 

The cicadas’ droning stops abruptly. There’s no sound to take its place, so for a long time, the world, the Heat Haze, is dead. I can’t hear the beating of my heart, or the hum of the pavement, or the blood rushing in my head. This is what oblivion sounds like. I sit down, and prepare for an eternity of silence.

That’s when I hear the music.

 

_ Yuuyake, koyake de higakurete _

_ Yama no otera no kaneganaru _

_ Otete tsunaide minakaero _

_ Karasu to isshoni _

_ Kaeri ma shou _

 

In the distance, I see a vaguely human figure, and a flash of red cloth. I can feel your sad, defiant smile spreading across my face, and I know with more certainty than I’ve ever felt about anything that I’ll be okay. You’re coming back for me. Maybe not soon, maybe not in this lifetime, but I’m your friend. I love you. I can wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few parting facts:  
> (1) A sick cat will slink off into the woods, find a nice, quiet spot, and die alone. They prefer it.  
> (2) Dying in someone's arms is an intimate experience for both parties. It's a display of trust, in some ways.  
> (3) Some people do not crave intimacy. Some people are put off by traditional displays of affection. This does not make them broken.  
> (4) Hiyori Asahina was allowed to leave the hospital the night of the accident. She went home with a group of children lead by her niece, Tsubomi Kido.  
> (5) Hiyori was awake when Hibiya was pronounced dead. The doctors allowed her a moment alone with him. She kissed him on the forehead and whispered to him.  
> (6) "I'll be back for you", she said.


End file.
